Taming Anarchy
by Mark Ol' Henry
Summary: Dragunov, a man who justifies the means with the ends. His cold fist has quelled many instances of unrest, but now a petty Japanese conflict has spilled into his country, along with an assassin whom he cannot silence.
1. Morning Frost

**Hey. Some of you may know me from my Soul Calibur story, Three Alliances and the Lost Soul. I'm gonna expand a little and start this Tekken story as well. I decided to start this story off as an origin story of Dragunov because although his mysterious past makes him interesting, I also believe it makes him one-dimensional. This is my take on his persona. I only plan on making the first two chapters his origin story. After that I'll jump into the main story, a drama/action featuring Anna as well. Your reviews will be greatly appreciated.  
**

**Morning Frost**

The melodic notes progressively grew in strength and speed by the second as the budding pianist keyed with more fervor. His fingers moved with a machine-like precision, not missing a single note despite the feverish pace of the music.

Sitting in the same room on a weaved sofa was a middle-aged woman who listened intently to the rushing piano music. She had soft and smooth facial features, and her flat brown hair was neatly and evenly cut just above her eyes. The aroma of her fresh brewed tea wafted in the air. She picked up her cup and took a sip, her eyes fixated on the pianist. While other pianists would move with emotion to the pace of their music, this one did not. He sat as still as tree, eyes focused on the sheet music, only occasionally glancing down at his hands.

At precisely 7:30 A.M. the music ended with three powerful notes, and the rich chords echoed into the following silence. The pianist sat silent and placed his hands on his lap. The woman on the sofa broke the silence with her clapping.

"Well done, Sergei." She got onto her feet and approached the pianist and kissed him on the temple.

"Mother, please." Sergei, embarrassed, waved his mother off.

His mother, Natalia, made a guttural sound of frustration and stood looming over him, hands on her hips, "Has my child prodigy become so conceited that he is ashamed of his mother's love?"

"No mother, but I am seventeen. I am no longer a child." Sergei left his seat and faced his mother. His eyes were the coldest blue, but Natalia could always see the underlying love in her only son's eyes. She play-slapped him and pointed down the hallway towards the front door, "Get out of here, you know you have class."

OOO

Sergei Dragunov, a prodigy at the age of seventeen. Talented musician, studying surgeon, and dabbler in psychology, he was a parent's dream child. He hailed a cab, not wanting to be even a second late to class. The cab stopped, but not without running over a puddle first, soaking Sergei. He promptly rolled down his window and apologized and offered the youth a ride, but he was sure to ask that he had the proper fare money. Sergei waved his wallet and promptly entered the cab.

Sergei gazed out the water-drenched windows of the cab. The windshield wipers were on at a constant pace to clear off the rain. While others avoided the rain at all costs, Sergei welcomed it. He saw it as a refreshing of the city. Dirt and grime would be washed away, and his home city would shine in its purity.

But perhaps "pure" was not the correct word for this city. It was well known throughout history that St. Petersburg was the crime capitol of Russia. There were petty criminals, gangsters, and even violent acts of racism against foreigners. Sergei would always hear about these issues in more detail than any other due to the fact that his father, Anton, was the Chairman of Russia's right-hand man. But Sergei never let the negativity of his city's situation damper his life. It would never affect his life as far as he was concerned. It wasn't in his plans-his plans that outlined the rest of his life.

That was how he was. Every detail of everyday would be planned. He was to become a surgeon. First he would graduate from St. Petersburg University. Then he would move to Moscow, a city of rich cultural history and the beating heart of Russia. It was there that he would make his name as a superb surgeon. He was committed to this plan, and that was the way he liked it.

The cab approached the university's immense campus. Sergei exited the vehicle and proceeded to the School of Medicine where the renowned surgeon and scientist Doctor Geppetto Bosconovitch passed on his skills to his students.

OOO

It was Sunday. The day when Sergei could rest. On that day Sergei indulged himself and slept in until 8 A.M. After waking and showering he would heat up the skillet and cook his parents a hearty breakfast of eggs, salted meat, blini, and buckwheat porridge topped with sour cream. He would also put the kettle on for his mother. At 8:15 the kettle would whistle, and shortly after his mother and father would return from their morning jog.

But today was different. Sergei looked at the front door. No signs of his parents. The kettle continued to whistle, a high pitched squeal that pierced the silence. He walked over to the kettle and lifted it off the burner. The steaming subsided and that was when he heard the clamor on the streets.

Sergei made his way down the hall toward the front window and looked out. He saw a small mob of people shaking their fists and hollering at a handful of policemen. But Sergei saw a pair of familiar faces in the group of policemen.

"What is happening?" He swung open the front door and called to his parents, but his cries were overpowered by the shouts of the mob.

"Greedy swine! There is a special place in hell for you!"

"Why should the taxpayers pay for the government's mistakes?"

The police men waved their batons and pushed against the encroaching mob.

"Back away! Go back to your homes!"

Sergei jumped down from his porch and struggled his way through the throng of bodies. In all the confusion and chaos there was one movement that caught his eye. One lone member in the mob raised his hand above the rest of the others. Sergei continued to stare as the hand flashed and a bang followed. Sergei couldn't understand what had happened at first, but after he saw the spurt of blood from his father's chest and the horrified expression on his mother's face he gasped in shock.

Anton's body fell out of sight and half of the mob screamed while half cheered. Sergei saw his mother drop out of sight to tend to her husband and that was when Sergei saw the second shot.

"Nooo!" Sergei relentlessly clawed through the crowd, eyes focused straight ahead at where his parents had fallen. Several other gunshots rang out, stopping him in his tracks. Some were shot by an officer, and Sergei specifically saw the mob shooter's head whip back. He froze in shock.

Cutting through the dispersing mob was a man in uniform who grabbed Sergei and led him away from the chaos, "Come, Mr. Dragunov. It is not safe for you here. There are others."

Sergei looked back at the violence behind him. Other mob members had pulled out their guns and shot back at the officers. The scene degenerated into slow motion in his eyes. He saw the animalistic expressions in their faces. He saw the evil intentions in their movements. It was disgusting chaos. It was a disgraceful scene.

OOO

Monday morning, 7:30 A.M. The piano sat without a player. The kettle sat on a cold burner, filled halfway with cold water. Placed atop the dining table were plates of dry meat and blini and bowls filled to the brim with a cold mass of porridge. The front door was locked tight, and a bouquet of flowers layed on the sidewalk several feet away.

OOO

The military trainer looked over his new recruits. He had seen kids like them come and go throughout the years, but he had to stop when he came across one particular youth. He smiled. He liked the look in this one's ice cold eyes. They were devoid of emotion, like a machine designed to flawlessly execute its tasks. The perfect soldier.


	2. Scars

**Scars**

The crunching snow was a dead giveaway. Immediately there was a flurry of movement in the sparse woods. The still air was disturbed by plumes of powdered snow. The company of soldiers pounced through the soft-packed snow like a gang of snow leopards in full pursuit of their quarry. Among them was 20 year-old Sergei Dragunov, one of the newest members of the Russian Special Forces. With his wild mane of black hair and a feral scowl he looked the part of a predatory lion.

To his right one of his comrades raised his rifle and shot off one bullet. The dark, distant figure fell after a small mist of red exploded from his back. Two other comrades to his left suddenly stopped running after their target and stood with rifles raised. Ahead of them there was an explosion of white powdery snow and the sound of stretching rope. After the white mist subsided the target was revealed to be hanging upside-down by one leg.

Sergei continued his pursuit ahead of his comrades and reached to his belt. Pulling out a knife he shifted directions and focused his attention on one of the last two targets. While the prey stumbled and sloshed through the snow, Sergei moved through it with ease, not missing a single step as if he was walking on top of it. In one confident and practiced motion he threw the knife, which entered the back of the runner's knee. The runner fell to ground and let out an agonizing cry. Without hesitating Sergei once again shifted direction and continued pursuit of the last quarry, leaving his latest victim to his comrades.

This last escapee was more agile and familiar with the landscape than the others, and even Sergei could not keep up. Sergei lifted his rifle and shot off one single shot. The bullet flew past the escapee's head and entered the snow a few feet ahead of him. Sergei grimaced. A blemished record. He put back his rifle and continued pursuit.

As the escapee approached a clearing in the woods he realized his mistake. He looked back and saw the wild haired Dragunov behind him, rifle pointed straight at him. Behind him was an old barn. If there was any hope, he would have to run into the barn. But he couldn't…

Sergei approached his target step by step, his face a stone carving of focus.

"I have been waiting for this for 3 years. "

"Don't do it." The escapee backed into the barn door and his face went white.

"Why not? What is in the barn?"

The escapee suddenly bared a desperate grin, reminiscent of a cornered animal, "Look for yourself."

"I will. I pray it is the rest of your men." Sergei pulled the trigger and his target's head whipped back, a splash of red staining the barn door.

Sergei laid his ear against the barn door but could not distinguish any particular sound. He took a step back and booted the door open. Expecting to be assaulted by a hail of bullets, it was needless to say that he was surprised to be staring at a waist high canister that immediately sprayed a bluish smoke into his face.

He immediately felt his airways and throat constrict and burn. He turned around and rushed out into the open, gagging for air. It felt as if he had drunk down a glass of acid, and with every second he lost precious oxygen. His mouth and throat began to dry, and the burning intensified.

After attempting to yell with no avail for his comrades he fell unconscious, his brain lacking the oxygen it so desperately needed.

OOO

Sergei awoke to the sound of a vague mechanical whirring. Cupped over his nose and mouth was a breathing apparatus. The military hospital was a bleak and lonely place, a place where Sergei felt just fine about being in. He left his breathing piece on his bed and strode to the door. He massaged his throat and swallowed. It hurt, like a case of strep.

The large steel doors in front of him suddenly swung open. Through them walked a slender man with slicked back hair and frameless glasses. In on hand he carried a bottle of vodka and a glass in the other.

"Comrade Sergei," he curtly greeted.

Sergei let out the first two syllables of the other's name, "Dimi…" But before he could finish it his throat was hit with a sensation as if he had inhaled the smoke of badly burning pepper, and he broke into a fit of coughing. With the coughing came a terrible sting in his throat, and he immediately forced himself to stop.

"Vodka?" His comrade handed out a glass of the freshly poured drink.

Sergei, knowing such a drink would do no good for his throat, simply shook his head and waved him away.

"Well, if you feel better, we have another assignment. Are you ready, Sergei?"

Sergei did not utter a sound and only gave a curt nod.

OOO

Three years later, surrounded by a thick forest of pines, a group of four Russian men stood in a circle discussing important matters. The leader was the tallest one, wearing a black ushanka. The others wore them as well, but theirs were brown in color. The snow storm whipped them off balance to the side, but they regained their posture and continued to converse.

Behind them was a military outpost consisting of a log cabin, a small aluminum warehouse, and a covered truck in which lower ranked soldiers were loading boxes upon boxes of ammunition. The leader continued to speak, his voice nearly overpowered by the howling wind. He animatedly explained with his hands, pointing some destination beyond the trees, wrapping and tying an invisible rope around an invisible object, and showing the others how to execute a hostage. The group broke into laughter, nudging each other with their elbows while the leader raised his head and guffawed with pride.

As they reveled the howl of the wind suddenly climaxed, and had it not been for the burst of red mist blowing off the leader's black ushanka, they would have kept on hooting until the body fell to the ground.

Up on the hill, nestled in thick brush underneath an overhang, Sergei Dragunov let out a satisfying smirk. He lifted the sniper rifle off its mount and strapped it to his back. He then disassembled the mount and packed it appropriately in its matte white case.

He left the safety of the overhang and began his hike up the hill. The storm pummeled his right side, but he trudged on. The wind continued to howl in irregular patterns, and it was during one moment of silence that Sergei heard the snow crunch before his foot had touched the ground.

He immediately turned around and was met by a white figure who ducked under his sight. Suddenly he felt his feet get swept out from under him and the horizon became the sky. The white figure reappeared from below his vision, blade in hand. He mounted Sergei, forcing all of Sergei's breath out of his lungs.

"Ah, the White Angel of Death, Sergei Dragunov. Why so serious? I'll make you smile."

The white figure thrust the cold blade towards Sergei's mouth, but Sergei was quick enough to catch his assailant's hand, shaking it and causing it to slice across the left side of his mouth. Blood streamed down his mouth, staining the clean white snow. A struggle ensued, both combatants caught in each other's grip.

Sergei quickly shifted to his side, driving his knee into the attacker's abdomen. He forced him up and over until it was the assailant who was trapped in the vulnerable position. Sergei took a hold of his knife hand, and twisted it violently. The splintering of bone could be heard above the howl of wind. He then grabbed his assailant's head, one hand on the chin, the other on top of his head, and twisted it in one swift motion. The white figure's body went limp.

Sergei stared at the masked assailant. The blood from his wound had stained the attacker's pure white suit. He removed the mask. Underneath was a man with slicked back hair, and faintly glistening in the snow was a single contact lens.

Sergei left the dead man, and continued through the storm. He took his right hand and dragged two fingers across the wound. He stared at the fresh blood on his fingertips. Small price to pay for the death of a traitor.

OOO

Sergei sat in the doctor's room, waiting for the last of his stitches to be removed. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall which ticked away in the awkward silence between him and the doctor.

The last stitch was taken out, and the doctor held up a mirror for Sergei. Sergei examined himself. A scar, running across the left side of his mouth. He had no feeling there either, save for a vague tingling sensation every now and then. He dragged a couple of fingers along the scar, seeing if his touch could rid his lip of the awkward sensation. It worked. He held his fingers there, and glanced at the clock. It was time for him to be going.


End file.
